Compulsion
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: Mark's feeling driven; Milt goes along for the ride.


Disclaimer: These are not my characters and I make no profit from them.

**Author's Note: ** In the third season episode, "Faster Heart," Mark takes Milt to a drag race event where he encounters an old adversary, Sammy O'Connell, and an old girlfriend, Kiki Cutter, who is also O'Connell's soon-to-be ex-wife. Is that enough dynamics for you? No? Well, to up the ante a little, Kiki (a top drag racer) is nearly killed in a race against Sammy, and a second attempt is made on her life as she lies unconscious in the hospital. Mark intervenes, preventing the murder and then pursuing the killer. He suspects Sammy is behind it, and goes after evidence. Hardcastle spends a lot of time in this episode sitting in the den, waiting for McCormick to come home.

So what does all this look like from his point of view?

**Compulsion**

by L.M. Lewis

Looking back, Hardcastle would have had to say the whole thing started on Friday morning, standing near the checkout counter of the auto parts store, waiting to pay for a set of new wiper blades for the truck. McCormick had wandered off and was studying a poster tacked up by the front door, one of those rainbow neon things in bold type: One Week Only—'85 Nationals!

The judge squinted at it for only a moment before turning to dish out cash to the clerk. It was a car race, undoubtedly. McCormick was draw to such notices like a moth to flame. There seemed to be a mixture of attraction and something else—maybe regret. More often than not, he'd study the announcements and then turn away silently. Occasionally he'd request an afternoon off to coincide with whatever event was happening at Riverside.

Hardcastle usually obliged, though he thought maybe it would be better if the guy just went cold turkey. Certainly his last two ventures out on the track had ended disastrously enough.

This time all he got was a distracted silence as they left the store. It was punctuated only by one long sigh as the younger man climbed in on the passenger side of the truck.

"What?" Hardcastle finally grumbled, as he got in behind the wheel. "Thought you said you were stayin' out of it for good after what happened in Arizona."

Mark looked at him sharply.

Hardcastle shrugged. "Well you did. It was that night, right after you got shot."

He got a puzzled frown from McCormick.

"You don't remember, huh? Figures. You were kinda fuzzy then, but it sounded like you meant it."

"Maybe—I dunno," Mark finally said, and then waved it all off with one hand. "You can't blame that mess on the Modifieds. I _won _that damn race. Anyway, what's that got to do with anything?"

"You staring at that poster. It was for some meet somewhere, right?"

"Yeah," Mark admitted, "tomorrow, down in Orange County. But I didn't wish I was _in_ it, I was just thinking about maybe going down and watching."

"Okay, well, sure. You might as well. Nothing big on the schedule."

"Really?" Mark gave him another sharp glance, then he turned his gaze back out through the windshield. There was a moment of hesitant silence before he added, "You ever been to a drag race?"

00000

He hadn't—not a professional one, anyway—and he'd kind of hoped to maintain that record, but McCormick had waxed prolix on and off that evening about the wonders of top fuel racing, the thrill of being slammed back in your seat at five g's by a ten-thousand horsepower rocket.

"Well, not really a _rocket_," he admitted, "but it damn near feels like one."

Hardcastle looked up from the file he'd been perusing. "You've done it?"

Mark shrugged and nodded.

"We talkin' street drags here?" the judge asked doubtfully.

"Nah," Mark smiled, "the real deal. It was way back, almost ten years."

"I thought you ran stock cars in Florida."

Mark suddenly looked a lot more reluctant, but all that earlier reminiscing must have wormed a hole through the reticence that usually shrouded his past. He barely hesitated before he blurted out, "You knew I did a little time back there."

Hardcastle had known that much from the file, and quite a bit more, too, courtesy of Mark's friend, Barbara Johnson, who'd fleshed out the details. Of course he'd verified what she'd said: that Mark had repossessed the vehicle of a prosecutor's brother and pleaded guilty to lesser charges when threatened with a felony. He stuck with a bare nod, rather than venture a legal opinion which would have cast aspersions on due process in that particular county.

Mark's eyes narrowed just slightly, as though he were estimating exactly how much the judge knew. He'd never seen his own file.

"Okay, so it was only a couple months, but it threw a wrench in a lot of things."

Hardcastle had known that, too—again from Barbara: how Flip had reluctantly been forced to go with another driver on account of Mark's forced absence. It had been much more than a missed opportunity for McCormick, though his expression revealed none of that now.

"So, when I got out it seemed like a good time to move on. Make a clean break."

"You came to California, right?"

"Ah, well, not right away. I got lucky—I guess you gotta get lucky sometimes." Mark smiled slightly as though there'd been something ironic in what he'd just said. He hesitated again, as if he were searching for the right description of his rare good fortune. He finally settled for, "I met someone who was well-connected—father and uncle in drag racing. I'd had a few dirt track wins but drag racing—it takes a lot of cash just to build a decent ride.

"I dunno, they thought I had the reflexes. I got hooked up with the right people and learned the ropes. I ended up in New York."

"So were they right? About the reflexes and all?""

Mark shrugged. "Guess so. I did pretty good."

"But you didn't stay in it. How come?"

McCormick was staring pensively at nothing. He seemed to recollect himself suddenly, becoming aware of the silence. He grinned—a quick, false flash—and said, "You know how it is with us ex-con types. No gumption. Things get a little tough and we're outta there."

Hardcastle knew no such thing, at least not about the man sitting across from him, but he knew better than to push the point. Mark had started to stand, obviously maneuvering his way out of both the room and the story.

"The speedway," he said, almost as a casual afterthought. "Tomorrow."

"Sure," Hardcastle said. "Why not?"

00000

Their morning at the Orange County Speedway had been more than a little strange. First there'd been McCormick's oddly animated mood, punctuated by his hostile encounter with one of the champion racers—a snake named O'Connell.

Hardcastle would have been hard pressed to explain just how he'd arrived at that initial assessment. Not everybody nicknamed "Sidewinder" was a reptile. He'd just known it instinctively, even before the thin veneer of civility between the two other men shattered and O'Connell whipped out with a venomous remark.

There was a woman involved. Hardcastle was gathering the puzzle pieces as fast as McCormick and the snake dropped them. He figured the ex-girlfriend/current wife/racing champ was almost undoubtedly the unnamed party from the previous evening's story. All he was missing were a few bits of chronology, and he figured he'd have the whole picture.

But then the whole thing went up for grabs in a disastrous, pinwheeling smash-up, Mark staring in horrified disbelief amid the cacophony of machine and crowd. It looked lethal, though Hardcastle knew better than to credit appearances when it came to racetrack crashes. McCormick started dragging him, against the flow, out of the stands.

The ambulance was gone by the time they'd maneuvered their way down to the trackside. McCormick was frantic, not able to get any useful information about her condition or where she's been taken. It was Hardcastle who spotted a track official in a grim tête-à-tête off to one side. Miracle of miracles, he knew the guy he was talking with—Henry Parks, an Orange County corporate law type. Parks didn't greet him effusively, but at least his approach with acknowledged with a nod.

The judge was glad he'd left Mark in the less promising crowd that milled behind him. He extended his hand for a shake to put things on a friendly footing.

"The driver," he asked calmly, "Ms. Cutter—any word?"

Parks shook his head. "Just left for the hospital—UCI, I think."

Hardcastle glanced over his shoulder. McCormick was heading his way. He turned back to his informant and put it to him hastily. "How'd she look?"

All he got was a slow worried shake of the track official's head and a flat expression from Parks, who was apparently glad he hadn't been near enough to see. Hardcastle let out a long breath just as Mark arrived. He grabbed him by the elbow and steered him off with only a quick, "Thanks," tossed back at the other two.

He had McCormick firmly in tow. "They've already hauled her off to the hospital, kiddo."

"How was she; what'd they say?" Mark lagged back a bit, as though torn between further questions for Hardcastle's sources and wanting to go see for himself.

"Just that they took her to UCI, so she must be alive, right?"

Mark seemed to give that an instant's thought and then picked up the pace, now taking the lead in the direction of the lot where they'd parked. He was the first to the truck and up in the driver's seat before Hardcastle could assert his own priority. He'd barely made it into the passenger seat before Mark peeled out of the lot.

The judge made a point of never—well, _hardly_ ever—criticizing McCormick's skills behind the wheel, but this time he had to bite his tongue. His driving bordered on erratic, but it seemed like a bad idea to pick a fight with a guy who was obviously distraught.

True, they'd witnessed a terrible accident, but Hardcastle couldn't help it. In the back of his mind he was turning over the question, examining it from all sides. It'd been nearly ten years, hadn't it? And hadn't this young woman spent that whole time risking life and limb driving a car that more closely resembled a rocket? And McCormick hadn't sat around worrying about her day and night, had he?

He supposed he might raise the issue, except that hadn't his judgment been a little impaired when Jane Bigelow had fallen back into his life—and that after almost forty years? And, anyway, they were screeching into the UCI lot nearest to the emergency entrance—still on four fully-inflated tires and with no new collision damage. He kept his opinions to himself as the truck squealed to a stop.

00000

The woman was still alive, though reportedly critical. The confrontation in the hallway of the trauma unit between McCormick and her snake of a husband had been even stranger than the one at the track that morning. Hardcastle could at least understand jealousy, but Sammy O'Connell's blatant lack of concern for his injured wife was beyond the pale.

It was obvious that even though he was being kept out in the hall, McCormick wasn't going to leave. Hardcastle offered to keep him company; it seemed like the least he could do, but he wasn't surprised to have the offer turned down. He had half a notion to hang around anyhow, to keep the younger man from doing anything stupid, but how much trouble could a guy get into in a hospital waiting room? So he left.

00000

He had the rest of that night to ponder that decision. He supposed Mark might simply be keeping vigil in the waiting room. But as evening wore on, and any conceivable definition of "visiting hours" was long past, Hardcastle kept his own vigil, sitting in the den. It was after ten when he finally reached for the phone and dialed.

"Hi Claudia," he said to the hello on the other end, "Frank there?"

He was, and, after additional casual assurances that everything was all right, she fetched him to the phone with a holler—"_It's Milt_."

Hardcastle supposed that after the past two years, Frank could be excused if his greeting was a tad wary. "_Everything okay?_"

"Sure, sure, fine," he said, by necessity having to sell it a little harder to the lieutenant. "Well, maybe not exactly _fine_," he backpedaled. "We were down in Orange County today, me and McCormick—the raceway."

He almost heard Frank's wince. "_That race, huh?_"

"You heard about it?"

"_Yeah, well, something like that—pieces flying all over the place—it made the evening news._"

"Ghouls," Hardcastle spat. "I think that's why some folks watch in the first place."

There was a momentary silence from the other end before Frank pointed out, rightly, "_You and Mark were there._"

"Yeah that—McCormick used to race drag. Did you know that?"

"_Uh-uh._ _Huh, hope he's not thinking of getting back into it._"

"Nah. He knows the girl, though—the driver. Knew her, more like it, back maybe nine-ten years ago."

Another silence and then a hesitant, "_She's okay, the driver?_"

"Dunno yet. Head injury. Some brain swelling, the doc said." He got to the crux of it abruptly. "McCormick's there right now, at the hospital. Waiting."

"_Well, an old friend like that—_"

"She's married."

"_Ah_."

"The guy's name is Sammy O'Connell, aka 'Sidewinder.' Big drag racer, ever heard of him?"

"_Baseball's my sport, Milt. You can't call that ghoulish_. _You got any particular beef with Mr. Sidewinder?_"

"Not yet," Hardcastle admitted. "Bad first impression. Really bad second impression. That's about it."

"_And Mark doesn't like him much, either,_" Frank speculated with disturbing accuracy.

"And if you turn anything up you might not want to mention it in front of him."

"_Who says I'm looking?_"

"The woman's still breathing and ol' Sidewinder says 'It don't look like she's gonna make it,' and walks off. How's that as probable cause for disliking the guy?"

"_Oh . . . nice,_" Frank said dryly. "_Okay_, _but it's Saturday night. After ten years this isn't a rush job, is it?"_

"No," Hardcastle rumbled, "s'pose not."

They exchanged good-byes, and Hardcastle tacked on an all-inclusive thanks. He didn't explain that it was only partly for the yet-to-be-conducted background check, and more for taking his call on a Saturday night and not telling him he was crazy.

After that he changed into pajamas and pretended to go to bed. He'd be damned if he'd let McCormick see him sitting up in the middle of the night worrying.

00000

It turned out he needn't have bothered. The sun was up before Hardcastle heard the taxi in the drive. The judge barely had a chance to wonder why McCormick hadn't just called for a ride home before glancing out the window and seeing the younger man's get-up.

A doctor's lab coat—stolen, no doubt, unless there were costume shops open late on the weekends. He scowled and took the stairs down with a harder step than was absolutely necessary, getting to the door before McCormick had a chance to scurry off and ditch the evidence.

"Where've you been?" he barked, then stepped back, surprised to find his quarry already on the stoop, obviously headed in his direction. On closer inspection, the coat was damaged goods with smudges of dirt on the sleeve and one side. The guy wearing it looked a little rough around the edges, too, but there was a burning light in his expression that Hardcastle was all too familiar with.

"What happened?" he asked as he stepped back further to let McCormick pass. "How's she doing?"

"Now awake yet, but better, I think," Mark said. His half-smile faded almost a soon as it had appeared.

"You got in to see her," Hardcastle said dryly.

Mark looked not the slightest bit apologetic.

00000

The rest of the conversation had been surprisingly civil and the judge heard himself almost reflexively offering assurances about how this new case would be handled, right down to having a guard placed outside the young woman's hospital room. Actually, that might be the easiest part; if the administrators there had a lick of sense they'd already stepped up security after the night's slew of imposters.

For the rest of it he only waited until he heard the front door close behind McCormick, who was presumably going to take at least a short break from trespassing to grab a few z's. As he watched him navigating the front steps stiffly, Hardcastle leaned over, snagged the phone, and dialed.

This time Frank answered, and it was on the first ring as though he'd been getting ready to place a call himself.

"_Just 'waiting' at the hospital, huh?_" the lieutenant said in response to Milt's greeting.

"_You know_," he continued heatedly,"_they've got __two__ suspects for last night's disturbance at that facility. There's a Dr. Lipsits who supposedly paid a midnight call on the lady—only the doc swears up and down he wasn't within fifty miles of the place. He was at his niece's Bas Mitzvah in Oxnard this weekend and he's got the tin of Jordan almonds to prove it._

"_So do I want to know who else besides the assailant was practicing medicine without a license last night?_"

"Probably not," Hardcastle admitted. "But if they found a syringe on the floor of Cutter's room they might want to run it down to the lab."

"_They did, and they are. And it lucky for the guy who borrowed Lipsits' coat that there were a couple of patients with insomnia and a view of the parking lot who both agree that the other guy tried to run the good doctor over._" There was a pause, and then Frank inquired circumspectly, "_Is Mark okay_?"

"More lives than a cat. He's alright." Hardcastle hesitated, but decided that his request couldn't wait. "Did anyone get a number on the car?"

"_Not that I heard. Wrong angle for the insomniacs, I guess_."

"I think I might be able to help you with that." The judge read off the numbers from the rusty hunk of tin on his desk, and then added, laconically, "Don't think they'll have much luck with an APB, though. The plate's been ditched."

"_And you know this because . . . or is this another thing I don't want to hear about?_"

Hardcastle's silence spoke for itself. He heard Frank sigh wearily.

"_Okay, just one more thing. Will you tell Mark all this crap went down in Orange County? I'm just kibitzing on this—strictly professional courtesy. I can't do any damage control._"

"I'll tell him. You think it'll do any good?"

00000

He really hadn't intended to let McCormick slip the leash again so soon—blame it on fatigue, and the tedium of waiting for further information. He couldn't push Frank, because Frank, not having any direct involvement, couldn't push his own sources.

Hardcastle didn't even realize he'd dozed off until that disconnected moment when he awoke to sound of the Coyote's engine, already diminishing along with McCormick's clean getaway. It was twilight, and the judge could only hope it was an unannounced pizza run.

The uncertainty was aggravating, but he didn't have long to contemplate it before the phone rang. He pounced on it, and his hello must have been brusquer than he'd intended.

"_You okay, Milt?_" Frank sounded concerned.

"Yeah," the judge grumbled.

"_Thought I'd pass along what I've got so far. This O'Connell character looks pretty clean. Couple of moving violations—speeding—no big surprise there I suppose._"

"And the numbers from the plate?"

"_Well, not that I'd doubt your sources, but you sure he got this one right?_"

"Sure as if I'd seen it myself," Hardcastle muttered.

"_Okay, then I dunno what to make of it—the car's registered to an insurance agency out in the valley. It hasn't been reported stolen, but that might just mean the outfit's closed on the weekends."_

"You shared that bit with the guys from O.C. yet?"

"_I would've if it'd been a hot lead, Milt; you know that. But since it's not Dillinger's Model A, I figured I'd rather not have to explain how I knew the number—especially since I don't know how I knew._"

"Sorry about that Frank. But, listen, you're probably right—a dead end, maybe a stolen plate. Why don't we just put that one aside for a bit?" he coaxed, trying not to make it sound too eager.

"_You mean you want to check it out yourself, huh?_"

Hardcastle stifled a smile, even if Frank couldn't see it. It was obvious that the man knew his M.O. too well.

"Let's just say I don't want somebody trampling the field."

"_I dunno, Milt._"

"What, you saying I don't know how it's done? Besides, like you said, it's probably a cold lead—stolen plate or stolen car, something like that. Humor me. It's something to do; it'll keep me and McCormick out of trouble."

"_I doubt it._"

They'd reached an unspoken agreement. Even though their farewells were a little tense, there were promises from both about keeping the other informed.

As Hardcastle hung up, he realized he'd already violated that arrangement. He stared out into the now impenetrable night with no idea where McCormick was headed this time.

00000

It was harder than the night before. At least then he'd been able to harbor the delusion that McCormick was just sitting in the hospital waiting room, hoping that one of the nurses would break down and let him in.

This time there was a call from Dr. Tanner, probably at the end of a long work day for him, but the news was good and he must have wanted to share it with a least one person who seemed concerned. The swelling had subsided. Ms. Cutter was awake and talking, and at this rate of progress might even be able to be discharged tomorrow. No, her husband hadn't been by and there was no one hanging around the SICU.

Hardcastle had already figured that one out, since the good news call hadn't come from McCormick. He thanked the doctor anyway.

It might have been the unintentional nap he'd taken that afternoon, but with the certainty that McCormick was out there somewhere, and almost undoubtedly up to something, sleep was elusive. He didn't even go through the motions of looking like he'd gone to bed. By his experience and calculations the odds were now fifty-fifty that the next call would be from the police.

It was, though not quite in the way he'd been envisioning, thank God. It was Frank, right around dawn, sounding disgruntled.

"_What'd he find?_"

It was a classically abrupt greeting from his old friend, and Hardcastle was damn grateful he didn't have a clue what the man was talking about—lots of guesses but no actual _clues_. He was able to say, in perfect honesty, "What are you talking about?"

"_Well at least it's in LA County this time. A break-in at the industrial park where O'Connell Racing has their shop—the guy you asked me to look up, remember?_"

The judge swallowed hard. "Any suspects?" he asked warily.

"_Security ran the guy off: thirtish, a lot of hair, red car—very fast. Sound like anybody you know?_"

"He take anything?"

"_That's what I'd like to know. Officially? No, nothing's missing._"

Hardcastle let out a cautious breath and said, as concedingly as possible, "I told you I'd tell you if I come up with anything."

"_He's not back yet?_"

"Who?"

00000

Maybe the telephone conversation hadn't ended all that well. It certainly hadn't done much for Hardcastle's _sang froid_. He had no appetite, though the sun was finally up. He heard a familiar engine—not the Coyote, more like the rusted out Chevette that the newspaper guy drove. There was a thud as the paper struck the door.

The judge rose wearily, pushing himself up with both hands on the desk. He retrieved his copy of the LA Times and then stood on the porch for a few moments, listening—nothing but the diminishing sound of the rattletrap Chevy.

He sighed and turned to go back in, paper tucked under one arm. This was what it was like to trust somebody: lots of time spent wondering where the hell the somebody might be.

He'd barely sat back down again when he heard the low rumble of the Coyote. This time he kept his seat, very definitely. He even managed to hastily locate the overnight police blotter item on page four of the local section: "Racing Outfit Break-In." It wasn't even as much as Frank had imparted and the slant seemed to be toward the possibility of industrial espionage, with a side mention of the co-owner's recent accident.

It didn't matter what was there, as long as he could keep Frank's involvement in reserve for the time being, no need to give McCormick the impression that he had some kind of even semi-official sanction. His resolved redoubled when the prodigal strolled into the room, still wearing basic black and carrying a pizza box, spinning a tale about why he'd gone out.

00000

It hadn't taken much to break that story down. Just a couple of quick quotes from the LA Times were all it took to get a full confession. In truth, what had initially looked like brazen defiance was probably more like an invitation to be interrogated. McCormick was damn eager to share his findings: a tie-rod from Kiki's ride that had been rigged to fail.

The leap from that to pegging Sammy O'Connell as the would-be murderer wasn't that much of a stretch, either. Though Hardcastle refused to admit that, he was willing to offer Ms. Cutter the hospitality of the estate until they got the little matter of just who was trying to kill her sorted out.

It was only when they were on their way to the hospital, with McCormick finally going to be able to talk to his ex-girlfriend, that the judge realized things were awfully quiet.

"Whattsa matter, you got a case of the nerves, or something? I thought this is what you wanted all along, a chance to see her again."

"Maybe." McCormick sounded not so sure about it. "I mean, we can't let her go off on her own until we settle this. Sammy trying to have her killed, I mean."

"_Somebody_ wanting her dead," Hardcastle corrected.

"Okay, somebody named Sammy," Mark said, sharply insistent. Then he fell silent for a moment. He finally took a deep breath and continued on. "It's not this. It's what happened before."

The story came out in fits and starts, as though the whole thing were painful still: Kiki's sudden capitulation from friend to lover, a whirlwind romance followed only a few weeks later by an unexpected announcement.

"Honest Judge, when she told me she was pregnant I almost panicked. I wasn't in a position to support a family. There was money in racing, but it was never a sure thing, and the schedule was crazy—the traveling.

"But it was weird, I dunno, almost before she'd finished telling me, I knew what I was going to do: quit racing, no more repo, either. I'd get into something more stable—auto repair, whatever it took. We'd get married and we'd have a home together."

"Sounds sensible." Hardcastle nodded.

"Yeah, sensible. Except as soon as I asked her, there was Sammy—Top Fuel Champ—hanging around. He'd already come up with enough scratch for a decent rail and had put together his own team. I knew he and Kiki had been an item a few months back but she'd said he'd broken it off with her.

"I went over to Tioga to sub for a friend of mine, just for a weekend meet, thought if I was lucky I could make enough to buy the ring. Come back on Monday and find out Sammy and Kiki had eloped. I left for California that night."

There didn't seem to be anything to say to that, except maybe for one question.

"The kid—?"

"I'm pretty sure there never was one."

"Women can be wrong about stuff like that," Hardcastle said.

"Over one weekend? From 'I'm having your baby,' to 'So long, sucker?'" Mark shook his head.

"So why the hell'd you want to see her again?"

"I've been wondering that myself."

Hardcastle thought it was a little late to be having second thoughts. They were pulling into the visitor's lot at UCI. He sucked in his lower lip and said, "You want me to go up there with you?"

"Nah," Mark sighed and arranged his face into a neutral expression. "Got myself into this, just have to dig myself out. Whatever she did, she doesn't deserve all this."

"'Course not," Hardcastle said, as the younger man opened the passenger door and scooted out.

00000

Whatever Mark had said, it apparently hadn't convinced Kiki Cutter that her soon-to-be ex-husband was trying to kill her. But at least she'd been willing to accompany them to Gull's Way.

She seemed surprisingly comfortable with McCormick. There wasn't as much as a hint of embarrassment. Hardcastle wasn't sure what she knew he knew about the circumstances leading up to her quickie marriage to Sammy, so he stuck to being a neutral referee.

He was more than a little surprised, though, to find the two of them almost to the kissing-and-making-up stage out by the pool shortly after he'd left them alone together. He couldn't help feeling a little relieved that he had a project for them to work on.

"The dispatcher at this insurance place says the car that was attached to that plate never officially left the yard," Hardcastle said as they pulled out onto the PCH.

Mark leaned forward a little and shrugged. "Then someone stole it."

"They use a lot with twenty-four hour security. Does it make any sense that someone would pick a place like that to do his borrowing from? Uh-uh. Someone diddled the paperwork."

"I think we ought to be working on this from Sammy's end," Mark said pointedly.

Kiki sighed in apparent exasperation. The judge felt just a twinge of satisfaction that the road to reconciliation wasn't entirely without potholes.

But he stuck strictly to his role as ref and said, "Listen you two, settle down. If I have to pull this truck over, you're both in trouble."

00000

The conversation with the insurance broker hadn't turned up anything definitive, but something in the man's demeanor left Hardcastle with hope. He thought they'd rattled the man. Of course gut instincts weren't probable cause.

After dinner he couldn't very well mount any objection to Ms. Cutter decamping for the gatehouse. The two were both adults and it was really none of his business. He hoped the doctor had laid down some rules about her not exerting herself, not that McCormick was much of a stickler for rules.

He'd half-hoped that the afternoon's activities would produce another attempt on Kiki's life. That would be just what he'd need to pry a warrant loose. Still, he'd almost given up on the possibility when finally, in the wee hours of the morning, he spotted some suspicious motion in the bushes under McCormick's bedroom window.

00000

What he hadn't expected was that the interrupted assassin would flee the scene with McCormick in hot pursuit. Hadn't he told the kid to call the police? But, no, Mark bolted down the stairs and out into the night, unarmed and obviously irrational. It was only by the unlikeliest of miracles that the killer had stepped out from cover to take his shot, and Hardcastle plugged him first.

Their hit man was dead, but he was also most certainly not somebody who'd had a personal interest in killing Kiki Cutter. Still, there was a little satisfaction taking down a hired killer. Hardcastle kept a cap on that. He'd had a suspicion, ever since their encounter with Weed Randall, that McCormick was less pragmatic about this stuff.

So he didn't even lace into him about how you're not supposed to run down an armed killer with no more than your heart on your sleeve. Not that McCormick seemed to be regretting his impulse. Love—if that's what it was—made some guys stupid.

00000

But the real satisfaction came from getting the warrant on the insurance broker's office. Hardcastle was pleased enough with that development that he gave the nod to McCormick's plan to harass Sammy O'Connell just a little. He thought a public confrontation might shake the snake up.

What he hadn't counted on was O'Connell shaking up McCormick. Whatever the Sidewinder had said, it'd left Mark in a blue funk. Even an afternoon spent reviewing the evidence from the broker's arson scheme barely lifted the man's spirits. Hardcastle had thought finding the lynchpin that connected Sammy to the attempts on Kiki's life would finally fix things for his friend.

But McCormick wanted something more than just to see O'Connell behind bars, and somehow it didn't seem like too much to ask.

00000

He'd given his word. And he'd been wondering what to get McCormick for his birthday.

How much could it cost to rent a car for the weekend? Not even the _whole_ weekend, really, more like a little under five seconds, not counting the pre-race burnout.

00000

Well, he'd given his word.

00000

Kiki had done her bit, putting the screws to the racing coordinators and convincing the sponsors that even on such short notice the match-up would draw a crowd to the raceway. Her nudges might not have been enough, but then came a late-breaking story by a reporter named Steve Taggert, who was hinting that all was not well in the O'Connell-Cutter racing firm. The "grudge match" story took on a life of its own.

So Sunday afternoon found them back at the Orange County Raceway, with seventy-five thousand dollars worth of rented hotrod, and Hardcastle wondering if driving a dragster was like riding a bicycle. He didn't want to ask McCormick, who might just have said "no" to annoy him.

Instead, the judge hiked back out to the truck, still within hearing of the loudspeakers, but not close enough, he hoped, to impart any of the usual jinx that McCormick was so certain he brought with him to any track. He wasn't going to take the blame for this one.

That's where he'd been when the cheer went up, and the announcer proclaimed McCormick's win over the reigning champ of the quarter-mile. Hardcastle smiled to himself and, finally safe from any possibility of hexing the thing, muttered, "Now you're cookin'."

00000

It was Monday afternoon before Kiki finally departed, wearing her own clothes instead of the barely buttoned shirt of McCormick's that she'd made her early morning appearance in. It was the judge's understanding that she was going down to Baja for a week, to lie on a beach somewhere far from guys like Steve Taggert and the rest of the sporting press.

That she'd spent even one additional night at Gull's Way was a mystery to Hardcastle, now that her life was no longer in danger. Of course there was the physical attraction, but he'd harbored some hope that Sunday's race had restored McCormick's self-esteem, and given him a little perspective on the woman.

"Hey, you wanna shoot some hoops?" Mark asked, only a moment after Kiki's car pulled out of sight around the curve of the drive.

The judge turned slightly and squinted at him.

"I don't get it," he said, almost without having intended to say it out loud.

"What?" McCormick asked, with every appearance of innocence.

"I dunno—sure Sammy was a snake, and an arsonist and a would-be murderer, but you gotta admit, your girlfriend there was no prize either."

"_Kiki_?" Mark shrugged. "She's not so bad." He was smiling half-wistfully.

"She lied to you and got your hopes up, and then dumped you—and you say 'not so bad'? What's the matter with you, kiddo?"

Mark looked almost startled by this description. Then he frowned as he seemed to give it some further consideration. He finally said, "So that's how it looked to you?"

"'How it looked?' Try: how it _was_."

"Yeah, well, maybe I was so busy being hurt by the whole thing that I never saw it from her perspective."

"Ackk, this must be some kinda weird Stockholm Syndrome."

"Nah," Mark grinned, "that'd mean I'm a prisoner of love. Don't think so."

"Then what are you," Hardcastle groused, "a sap?"

"It's not what I am, or was. It's what _she_ was. Even at twenty-one she was the hottest driver I'd ever seen . . . and I don't mean it _that_ way."

"Okay, she was good. So what?"

"And her family was in racing—her dad, her uncle. She should have been the logical choice for their top driver. But they thought the track was no place for a girl—except maybe to drop the handkerchief."

"Times change."

"Yeah, but they hadn't yet, not for her, and it was eating her up inside to see guys who weren't as good as her get their chances. When her uncle gave me a ride—me with only dirt track experience—something must've snapped."

"She never loved you."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that." Mark's grin faded slightly, replaced by a measured look that seemed pretty confident. "I think it was just that she loved racing more. Way more than me, a guy who was hooked up with her family. Sammy had his own equipment and good prospects for expanding. And he might've been a snake, but he understood the business and what would attract a crowd. He didn't have any problem with Kiki getting behind the wheel, as long as it upped the gate and got them both publicity."

"So, it's all okay—everything that happened between you two?"

"She got what she wanted, even if she had to take the bad with the good. It was never anything personal. And last night, well, she just needed somebody to talk to. Maybe a chance to explain."

"That's all, huh?" Hardcastle looked dubious.

"Yeah." McCormick's smile was damn near ethereal. "And she is really, _really_ good at explaining."


End file.
